


moments

by orphan_account



Category: Lord of the Flies - William Golding
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Swearing, Violence, all you need to know is that jack is an asshole and roger has issues, mentions of depression and suicide, some homophobic language, they're just rlly fucked up okay, you don't even need to have read lord of the flies to understand this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-04 19:47:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13371843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Boarding school is a lonely place if you've got nobody. Luckily for Jack and Roger, they've got each other.(This is basically snippets of the life of two messed up gay kids. Read if you like angsty teenage romance with a bit of murder/violence involved)





	moments

**Author's Note:**

> i am totally ready for this to flop because the lotf fandom is literally dead but i had this on my computer and i actually quite liked it.
> 
> As I said this has got literally like nothing to do with the actual book lord of the flies but instead it's two of my fave characters in one of my Alternate Universes. So ... read if you want? thanks

They are thirteen, entangled together under Jack’s blanket. Roger never sleeps in his own bed when the weather is like this. The ominous sound of howling wind battering the thin glass is enough to keep anybody awake, and Roger’s bed is closest to the window. One day it will just smash into thousands of sharp, tiny pieces. Jack often wrestles with the dark, trying to find comfort under the blankets, but he’s always tossing and turning - Roger provides some sort of company. At least if the window does break, he’ll have someone to shield him from the shards of glass flying in his direction.

Roger's breathing is shallow beside him and Jack knows from experience that he's having a nightmare. Once he’s sat up and regained his breathing, he claims to never remember what they were about. He inherits a far too troubled demeanour, and then won’t shut his eyes until his body drags him into unconsciousness.  It’s not difficult to see that he’s lying – of course he can remember. Probably all too well. His eyes give him away, dark and jumpy and scared, like an animal that's just been cornered.

And if Jack had to hazard a guess as to what the nightmares were _about_ , that wouldn’t be challenging.

Jack thinks about the incident too. It’s difficult not to. Especially all of the blood. There was so much spilling from Derek’s head that Jack had been transfixed, staring at the twisted figure on the floor, wondering how somebody can hold _that_ much liquid inside their body. Surely it couldn’t all fit, could it? He had looked at his own wrist, looked long and hard at the veins which climb up his pale skin, vines of blue and purple. Inside there is blood. Just like Derek’s blood.

In all the books, there are pictures of fighting. There’s a book in the library about soldiers. The blood is always a bright splatter of scarlet, more like the ribbons which all the girls tie on the end of their plaits. But it’s not like that when you see it. It’s a dark, inky colour. It’s thick and slow and oozing and _warm_.

Although Jack spent a while feeling sick with guilt, like he’d overeaten and was suffering the consequences, it wasn’t as terrifying to face himself after a few days. It was a pleasant sort of tingle in his toes, rather than a nervous one. There was no burden weighing him down. The guilt has since been replaced with a strange sort of satisfaction.

Yet he doesn’t dream of it. Not like Roger is at this very moment. No, for Jack, dreaming consists of fictitious realities. Often, he is a soldier, fighting in the war, just like his grandad. Jack likes it when he dreams of commanding all the soldiers, leading them through the fields, advancing to the enemy lines. The rifle always feels so right cradled in his arms. It’s never heavy.

Roger twitches half-consciously. His skinny arms clutch at each other. He’ll wake up soon.

Jack moves closer, closing the space between their bodies, hoping to gain some sort of warmth. Although the winter is his favourite time of year, filled with the excitement of the fast approaching Christmas holidays, it certainly does get cold. All he has shielding himself from the air are a pair of thin pyjamas, an even thinner blanket, and Roger’s fidgeting body.

Roger’s elbow connects painfully with Jack’s ribs as he jolts himself upright. He grabs at the blankets, fingers scrabbling for something to grip and ripping the warmth away whilst gasping for air. It takes him a second to figure out where he is and who’s hand is resting on his shoulder. He snaps his wide-eyed gaze to Jack; his paranoia ceases slightly when he recognises the freckled face, but only slightly.

Jack reaches out for the covers. His exposed feet are cold.

“Nightmare?”

“No,” Roger denies, his response automatic. His pyjamas suddenly seem too big, hanging over his skinny body like bags. “No,” he repeats, as if saying it twice will make it true.

“What was it, then?”

“Wind woke me up,” he settles with after a long second of hesitating. He’s a good liar, keeping his voice smooth and his eyes dark, but his shaky breathing betrays him.

“You’re lying,” Jack tells him.

Roger looks conflicted at Jack’s agitated tone. He eventually shakes his head for a second time with less gusto than the first time.

“You’re thinking about it,” he adds.

“About what?” he asks, even though it’s clear he knows exactly what Jack means. Trapped in a dorm with several other sleeping boys, it’s difficult to say much, and Roger can’t see Jack’s eyes in the dark. So, he just yanks Roger’s arm, letting the other boy sag under the weight of his exhaustion. His head hits the pillow with a soft noise.

“September,” Jack says quietly.

“Of course, I’m not,” Roger replies, even more hushed. As if his eyelids are too heavy for him to keep open, they flutter shut and open occasionally. He’s exhausted from so much physical exertion in their games lessons, and it must be the early hours of the morning now. “I didn’t even know Derek.”

That’s the thing: Roger doesn’t feel bad. Not like he should. Jack saw the spark of madness in Roger’s eyes when Derek had disappeared off the edge of the balcony, limbs flailing. He knows that Roger enjoyed it much more than he should have, felt the same way, staring at the broken body below them. He wishes that Roger would just _admit_ to those sadistic urges. Let them take over. Then he wouldn’t be forced awake by horrible nightmares.

“What are you scared of?” Jack asks him.

“I’m _not_ scared.”

“Yeah, you are. Or you wouldn’t be having nightmares.”

“I didn’t have a nightmare. Told you that.”

“But you weren’t telling the truth.”

“I am!”

Their voices are gradually growing in volume. By the time Roger insists he was telling the truth for a fourth time, calling Jack a liar in the process, it’s nearly a shout. Jack shushes him, pressing a finger to his lips.

For a while, Roger just looks at him across the dark. His facial features are hard to see, as his skin blends in with the surroundings, but Jack can just see a pair of narrow eyes glowering at him, and a hand comes up to knock Jack’s fingers off his lips.

“Roger,” Jack says, a more appropriate volume, “do you feel guilty?”

He awaits the same generic reply he gets every time, or either a smooth denial. But maybe it’s because they’re wrapped up in their own little bubble, away from everybody else, serene in the safety of Jack’s bed, that Roger sighs, almost in defeat. His breath tickles Jack’s cheek.

“No,” he says finally, quietly.

Jack lets himself smile, satisfaction curdling in his stomach. He throws his arm around the other boy’s skinny torso, pulling him close. “Me either.”

It takes a while to regain a comfortable sleeping position; Roger lies unnaturally still for the rest of the night.

* * *

 

They are fifteen, and Roger is nursing a bloody nose and throbbing knuckles. Jack arrives at first aid and rolls his eyes, saying something about how he needs to learn to control his temper. Roger scowls, fighting off the urge to remind Jack that _he’s_ got a fiery, short-fused temper which often lands them in trouble far more than Roger does.

Pale fingers grip Roger’s bruising ones. Jack peers at the cut and examines the injured hand with steely eyes, swiping away from of the dripping blood with the pad of his thumb. Eventually, he says, “You need a bandage for that.” As if it already isn't obvious. But Jack says it as if it's a great discovery, arrogance dripping from his voice.

For a moment, Roger’s heart leaps in panic when he thinks Jack’s about to turn around and walk out the door, and is immensely relieved when the redhead falls into the chair next to him. He sighs as he falls, his long legs sprawling across the floor. He’s certainly grown to be tall.

“Apparently Tommy’s face was pretty fucked up,” Jack tells him. By his tone, Roger is expecting to be reprimanded, reminded that they’re nearly fifth years now. Instead, he just snorts with laughter. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t start it,” Roger snaps.

“You’ve barely got a scratch on you.”

“Still didn’t start it,” he mumbles, which earns a smile from Jack, one which twists his face into something unpleasant. He was never a cute kid, but there was a certain mischievous quality to him. Now all of the angles of his face have grown impossibly sharper. The freckles which used to give him childish innocence are now dark, ugly marks marring pale skin.

“What did you do to get him to start on _you_ , then?” Jack insists. It’s obvious he’s not going to drop the subject any time soon. “I reckon you’ve broken his cheekbone, you know. His face is like,” he holds his hand a few centimetres from his face to indicate swelling, “really swollen. You must’ve hit him pretty hard.”

“I was defending myself,” he says, repeating the same excuse he’d told the nurse who cleaned the blood dribbling down his chin.

It’s very much a lie – Tommy Baker didn’t have a fucking chance against him. He didn’t need to defend himself, not the extent he did. But there was somebody in front of him, spouting insults, shoving him back and _trying_ to start a fight. Roger’s not going to pass up on an opportunity to feel contact beneath his knuckles. He likes the dark colour of blood as it stains the white school shirts. He likes the desperate gasps which escaped Tommy as he tried to breathe, but _couldn’t,_ because Roger was hitting and hitting and hitting …

“Bullshit.”

“Can you stop it?” Roger hisses, agitated.

Although he doesn’t want to be sat alone whilst trapped in first aid, he doesn’t want to be having this conversation. Jack doesn’t need to know that the reason Roger hit Tommy Baker to the point of a concussion was because of everything he was saying. About Jack. About how he was never going to get head boy because _faggots_ don’t get any superior position, and how Roger would be helpless without Merridew taking care of him. He’d said some other things, but there had been blood flying from among his broken teeth shortly afterwards.

“Jesus.” Jack nudges him, which actually quite hurts coming from his skinny elbow. Roger can’t tell whether it’s meant to be friendly or annoyed. “What’s gotten into you?”

There is a silence, broken by another sigh. Jack’s always sighing. He just seems constantly bored, as if life can’t supply enough excitement for him.

“I’ll probably get suspended for this, you know.”

The redhead nods absentmindedly. It’s obvious he’s thinking _well, that’s your fault_ , but has enough common decency to just say, “Yeah. Probably.”

“Mum won’t be half pleased.”

“Fuck what she thinks, Rog.” Jack turns his head sideways, meeting Roger’s shocked gaze. “I mean it. We’re nearly sixth formers. Then we’ll be out to work. We’ll start our own life.” A faint smile slips onto his lips as he dreams up some idealistic future, one which Roger knows probably won’t happen. “Us against the world.”

“I dunno what I’m doing at sixth form yet.”

“You’ve got months to figure it out,” Jack says, rolling his eyes. He’s so fucking obnoxious and momentarily, Roger really wants to punch him too. He probably would if his knuckles weren’t already spent and throbbing. “But once we’re out of here, we’re _out_.”

He furrows his eyebrows. Life doesn’t work that way. It’s all just a plunge underwater from the second you reach adulthood and the only people who manage to stay afloat are ruthlessly ambitious people, people who pull others under the current in order to surface themselves.

People like Jack.

“Roger." Jack talks quietly, as if he’s about to tell a secret. “You’re hiding something.”

“Am I?” Roger asks, overly sarcastic. Fucking Jack. Can’t he just _not_ analyse everything to excruciating detail? “Wow. Thanks for letting me know.”

“Don’t start that. It’s obvious. You’re all jumpy, and every time I talk about the fight –“

“We _spoke_ about that. I told you.” He fixes his jaw, determined that Jack’s notorious persuasive techniques won’t get him to say anything he doesn’t want to. He won’t crumble. “He started on me. I was defending myself. That’s all there is to it.”

The eye contact is gradually becoming uncomfortable in its intensity, so Roger flicks his eyes towards the ground, distracting himself by staring intently at the leg of a chair in the corner.

“What else is there to say?” he tacks on bitterly, even though deep down, he knows that he could tell Jack all about what Tommy was saying. Then they could plot their revenge together, just how they used to. Roger doesn't care if Tommy Baker never has the confidence to so much as speak again. He doesn't care if Tommy gets another beating. He's not concerned for the wellbeing of that kid. Not at all.

No, he's concerned about how Jack will react to Roger telling him _I beat some kid to a pulp because they were badmouthing you_. Jack might be impressed. He might thank him. But there’s also the possibility he might think it’s a gross overreaction to a few words. He could raise his eyebrows and say _why would you do that? Wow. That's a bit of an overreaction, don't you think?_

“Roger –“ he says, gentler this time. Long fingers reach to touch his knee.

They are interrupted by the nurse coming back in with a bandage. Jack pulls his hand back. She notes his unrequired presence with raised eyebrows, but doesn’t send him away. As Roger’s bloody hands are cleaned up and wrapped in a fresh, white bandage, Jack fixes him with a stare.

He doesn’t stop staring for a whole entire minute. Roger refuses to meet those eyes. The second Jack plays that whole ‘nice friend’ thing, he knows he will crumble. Jack’s manipulative tactics are well known by now.

Before getting up to leave, Jack just says, “See you later,” then his flash of red hair is disappearing out of the door. Roger watches him go, half wistful, half thankful.

* * *

 

They are sixteen and Roger’s hand is cold as it’s down his trousers.

The dorm is filled with snores from the other boys and Jack has to stifle any groans and moans which threaten to come from him mouth. Since their first sexual exploration when they were barely fifteen, Roger’s almost perfected the twist of his palm and the drag of his thumb.

Jack can’t see the other boy because he is buried under the blanket. It feels good, but right now, as he gets dangerously close to climax, he wants to see a pair of dark eyes looking up at him. Jack wants to intertwine his fingers with raven hair and tug Roger down until his hand is replaced with his mouth. He wants more than he’s being given.

Jack shifts his hips, fucking up into Roger’s fist desperately, biting down on his knuckles to muffle his voice. If they were alone, he would be saying lots of things, stringing together names and curses until he’s exhausted every available word in the English language. But they aren’t. Others are always around. It’s one of the cons of sharing a dorm.

Fingernails leave half crescent marks on Roger’s arm as Jack comes, letting out something similar to a grunt. It’s the most he can get away with. Although the next time the dorm is empty, Jack will be as loud as he wants, and it will make everything ten times more intense. Silent quickies under the covers aren’t exactly great, but they’re something, and Jack’s hard-on was poking aggravatingly into Roger’s thigh and wasn’t going to stop until something was done about it.

“Fuck,” he breathes as Roger emerges, wiping his arm distastefully. “You’re getting good.”

“Getting,” is all that is repeated. Trust Roger to pick out the negative. “I don’t see you complaining about the ones before.”

“I’m not. I mean, you tossed me off _better_ than before.”

“Yeah.” He shifts back up to the pillow, looking slightly put out, but Jack isn’t sure whether that’s because of the handjob or the English exam they all sat today. Jack only just scraped a pass, so he can’t imagine what grade Roger got, as he’s considerably less ambitious when it comes to education.

“It’s a compliment,” sighs Jack. He shifts down, wrapping his arm around Roger’s waist and about to go to sleep, when his hand brushes something that’s certainly not his hand. “You're, uh...” He trails off, sitting back up and looking down. Sure enough, there’s a noticeable tent in Roger’s pyjamas, and Jack doesn't even bother to hide his smile.

“Want me to take care of you?”

He shrugs. Not quite a yes or a no, so Jack just guesses what he wants. The bed creaks as Jack pushes Roger’s hips further up so he is sat against the headboard.

“Don’t make too much noise,” Jack tells him, knocking his knees apart and tugging down his clothing. It makes him burn with pride when he coaxes a gasp from Roger by nipping at the insides of his thighs. He resists the urge to suck a mark into the surprisingly soft flesh. “I’ve been told I’m good at this.”

Roger’s hand finds his hair and tugs it, hard. He doesn't say anything, but the tug speaks for itself - _who else have you been doing this with?_

Although they've never labelled this as anything other than 'fucking', the satisfaction of making Roger jealous flickers in his chest, something similar to happiness, but not quite there. Jack starts off using his hand, mainly because he knows it will drive Roger crazy, having been promised something more and not quite getting it. Jack purposely lets his hot breath wash over Roger’s cock. Just to remind him that there’s a wet, willing mouth a few centimetres away and all he’s getting is a sweaty palm.

Although he’s never been the patient type, Jack waits until Roger’s thighs are trembling and he’s fisting handfuls of Jack’s hair desperately. Only then does he lean forwards and let his lips slide over the head, taking as much as he can into his mouth without gagging. He pushes his thumbs into Roger’s hipbones to stop him from bucking his hips up in a primal rhythm like he wants to, like he needs to. As alluring the idea of letting Roger lose complete control over him is, it won’t end well. Jack will either end up choking or throwing up and neither of those options sound great.

He hears a needy, “Come _on,_ for fucks sake,” from above the blanket. He must have paused in his movements whilst thinking.

Jack hums in response, mouth still around Roger, which causes the fingers in his hair to tighten. He pushes forwards as far as possible. Tears spring to his eyes. It’s worth it when Roger’s groan sends spikes of arousal down his spine, the heat pooling in his stomach and making his sensitive cock stir.

Rhythmically, he moves his head up and down. He grips the base of Roger’s cock with his hand. There’s no way he’s reaching down that far. That familiar aggravation at not being able to do something, at _failing_ , leaves an unpleasant afterthought.

“More,” Roger says, his hips desperately trying to escape Jack’s hold. “Fuck. Please. More.”

 _Don’t tell me what to do_ would be his usual response. But now is different. He wants to hear those low, long moans and wants to feel the shaking of Roger’s legs underneath his hand. He wants that bitter, familiar taste on his tongue.

Nails bite painfully at Jack’s scalp. He knows that Roger is close now and he speeds up his movements, fuelled by picturing the screwed-up expression of the boy above him. He can’t see his face now, but Jack’s seen it before. Whilst in a haze of pleasure, Roger digs his front teeth down onto his lip, hard enough to draw blood. He shuts his eyes and his smooth skin crumples and his hands always grip something. Right now, that’s Jack’s hair.

“Fuck, don’t … don’t stop, _oh,_ ” Roger mumbles. It’s barely heard from underneath the quilt. “God, Jack, fuck.”

His name is said once in warning for what’s about to come, and then Roger lets a groan slip from between his teeth. Like he always does when coming, Roger has probably thrown his head back, revealing an expanse of smooth skin on his neck. Jack wishes he wasn’t hidden and could have seen it. It always sends waves of indescribable need across his body.

Jack emerges from under the blanket and breathes in cold air. He hadn’t realised how claustrophobic it was.

“Did you – did you swallow that?” Roger asks disbelievingly, eyebrows furrowing.

“Don’t look at me like that. You’ve done it before.”

“No. I don’t think it’s disgusting or anything, I just … didn’t think you did.”

“I won’t do it again next time, don’t worry,” Jack grumbles, resuming his position behind Roger and wrapping an arm around his slender waist. “It doesn’t taste good anyway.”

“I didn’t say that.” Roger pauses, then adds, “I liked it.”

“Yeah. Course you would have. You were the one getting the blowjob.”

“You offered.”

“I know I did.” Jack closes his eyes. He senses that Roger’s about to say something else, so he tells him, “Go to sleep. I’m tired.”

Neither say anything else, but Jack can’t shake the warmth which floods his body every time he remembers who is sleeping beside him.

* * *

 

They are seventeen, and Jack is leaving.

He says it bluntly – _I’m getting out of here._ He feels guilty for just turning around and _going_ quite like he is, but it’s his education, his future. All those naïve plans him and Roger had mulled over are far out of reach.

Before the words have barely left his mouth, Roger eyes have gone from shocked to horrified to angry at a terrifying speed.

Jack awaits his supposed best friend to congratulate him – they both know the sixth form in St. Albert’s is _so_ much better than here – but that never comes.

“You’re just going to leave me,” Roger says plainly.

Jack shrugs. “Well, yeah. Unless you could get into St. Albert’s.”

He offers a small chuckle, because they both know that Roger’s not got the grades to even consider that school, but the other boy doesn’t find it funny. Not at all. Instead, his eyes are becoming scarily dark, almost burning in their intensity.

“What about all that shit you said?” Roger replies finally. “About getting out together. Starting our own life. You know,” he says. The words are a bad impression of sarcastic. “ _Us against the world_.”

Carelessly, Jack shrugs for a second time. It’s all he can really think to do. Roger’s hands are beginning to curl into fists and his eyes are glimmering – for a second, Jack thinks it’s tears, but with a second look he realises it’s anger.

“Yeah, sorry.” An apology sounds foreign coming from his lips, but he lets it happen. “Might have to cancel that, on second thoughts.”

Dark eyes stare at him for a very long time. Jack stares back – he can feel the tension rippling between them in waves, almost so intense he can see it disrupting the air. Then without any warning Roger is surging forwards, a whisk of black hair and flailing arms.

Jack feels a fist connect with his cheek before he can really register what is happening. Although his arms are skinny, the sheer impact of the punch is enough to force Jack backwards. He’s not sure what he was expecting. A sensible reaction with someone plagued with emotional issues such as Roger is impossible.

Initially, all he can do is groan. He bends double, clutching his mouth, and that’s when he spots the blood on the ground, thick, red and dark. The force of the fist must have split his skin.

“The fuck, Roger?” he spits, blood flying from his mouth. His lip is bleeding and he’s surprised that his teeth aren’t loose.

“You’re leaving?” the dark boy asks angrily, shoving an already injured Jack back. It nearly sends him flying. “You’re fucking _leaving?_ ”

“What, am I not _allowed_ to leave now?” he snarls.

“What about me, you bastard?” Another blow, this one from his foot. The kick sends a jolt of pain up his knee and Jack musters the strength to push Roger away.

“What _about you?_ You – “Jack struggles for a word, breathing ragged, something to accurately express all his anger in one word. “You _psycho_.”

“You promised!” Roger shouts, uncharacteristically loud for somebody of his usual reserve. “That’s been the plan since we were …  what? _Thirteen?_ And you’re just going to turn around and _leave_? Leave _me?_ ”

And then Jack is pushing back, ignoring the metallic taste flooding his tongue, pushing with all his strength. Neither boy backs down. People begin to gather around when they realise what is happening, but everybody maintains a healthy distance. They’ve both got unsavoury reputations when it comes to violence.

“I’m not your fucking boyfriend! You aren’t my responsibility!” Jack swings for another blow and his fist knocks Roger sideways. He is up on his feet almost immediately, still never retreating, shoving and pushing and hitting. The shorter boy’s face is a picture of intense hatred, so powerful that it screws up his face and makes his smooth skin creased. “God, you couldn’t even be happy for me, could you?” Jack adds, words venomous. “You have to make it about you. _Poor_ Roger. Never good enough for anybody because he’s _mental_.”

These words are coming from a part of him he wasn’t aware existed. Sure, he’s always had mean things to say, but never quite so hurtful. Especially not about Roger, who was the one kid in this pathetic school he doesn’t hate.

“I hate you,” Roger growls, but he barely manages it. His voice is wobbling and strangled. “So fucking much, Merridew. I … hate …you.” With each word, he pushes Jack back. He’s strong enough to nearly knock him over, but not quite. His lip is searing with pain and honestly, at this moment in time, he hates Roger too.

“You don’t. You can’t.”

“Fuck you.”

“I’m the only one who has ever liked you, you know.” Jack laughs, loudly, unkindly. “Even your own parents thought you were batshit crazy. That’s why they sent you to boarding school. To get away from you.”

Another blow. This one knocks Jack flat on his back, Roger closely following. Like animals, they roll around on the floor, scuffling and swearing at each other. There’s one thing going through his mind – he wants to lash out, _hurt._

“Manipulative … tosser,” Roger says in between gasping breaths. “Fucking – _controlling_ – stupid –“

By the time there are teachers swarming them, pulling them off each other, both are sporting bloody noses and throbbing faces. Reluctantly, Jack lets go of him, letting Roger tumble into a heap at his feet. Professor Catherine is tugging at him arm and urging him to go to first aid. Roger is breathing heavily, every breath ragged. If hot blood wasn’t dripping down the side of Jack’s face, he would feel bad, but it wasn’t just him that had caused damage. Their hands are equally to blame.

He doesn’t pay attention to his Professor; his gaze remains stuck on the boy covered in blood beneath him.

“Merridew,” hisses Professor Catherine for a fourth time. “Go to first aid. You’re _bleeding_.”

As he pulls from her grip, Jack takes one final look at his best friend of six years. That rare vulnerability shines through the cracks in Roger’s sadistic armour. It’s not often Jack feels anything close to sympathy, but now, something awful twists in his chest. It hitches his breathing and for a very frightening second, Jack thinks he’s about to start crying.

He doesn’t.

One final, “See you around,” is murmured, and Jack turns around and walks away, leaving nothing behind except his friend and heavy regret.

* * *

 

Jack is newly twenty-one, and he is looking directly at a dark, isolated figure which screams familiarity.

Tonight, he’s ventured far beyond the usual confinements of the north side of town. He’s never liked the south side particularly. It’s rougher and darker and scarier, and although Jack would never admit it, he feels vulnerable whenever he comes here. The streets aren’t familiar at all. It’s always hit a nerve when he’s not in control, when he doesn’t know everything to immense detail.

If that person sat at the bar is who he thinks, then it’s not at all surprising. The south is unpredictable and dangerous, something which Roger has always been drawn to. Jack can remember all those years ago when they shared unspeakable truths, when their desires bled into one. Jack can’t remember ever sharing such darkness with anybody else. Not even Esme, his current wife-to-be. He’s supposed to share everything with her, when in fact, the only person who actually knows him is perched at the bar several metres away.

There are two options here. He can turn away, walk away for a second time, chance never spotting Roger again. Or he can scrounge up some bravery and go to him.

The last time they spoke had ended in a fight. Roger had given him a spectacular black eye and left his lip scarred for months afterwards. It finally faded along with the memories of the friendship, but now, it’s all flooding back in. Jack can almost feel his knuckles hurting from one particularly hard hit.

“Roger.”

The person in question tenses up at the sound of his name. When he whips his head around, Jack musters a friendly smile, although he knows it probably doesn’t look all that friendly. The harsh contours of his face give him a permanently hostile expression.

“Long time no see,” Jack adds, because it’s clear he isn’t going to be graced with a response. “It’s been, what? Five years?”

“Not quite,” comes a frosty reply.

“Four, then. Whatever.” _As difficult as ever, I see_. “Life treating you well?”

There’s a sharp noise. It takes him a second to realise that Roger had laughed, a quick breath of air. “When has life _ever_ treated me well?”

“Right. I’ll take that as a no.” Without asking, Jack takes a seat next to him. It’s dark enough that Roger’s eyes can be hidden. Jack knows that there’s a few golden flecks which run across the irises, but only in the light.

There are a few obvious changes since the last time Jack saw him – his body is assuredly lankier, his face longer, jaw sharper. Jack left when Roger was barely seventeen, when his arms were still out of proportion to his torso, and when his sun darkened skin was splattered with remnants of acne. It’s not left any marks, however, and his skin has stretched over his sharp cheekbones back to its original smoothness. He’s an adult now – they both are – but he still looks identical to the dark little boy who Jack spent his childhood sleeping next to.

“Surprise to see you in the south side,” he lies.

“Surprising to see you here at all,” Roger comments. “Thought you’d move away. Get some big, business job and I’d only see your face in the news.”

He chuckles half-heartedly. “Yeah. That’s what I thought too.”

A grin curves up the side of Roger’s face. One of his close-lipped, infuriating smirks. Jack knows he’s not smiling to be nice. No, he’s happy, _gleeful_ , that Jack’s life hasn’t gone to plan quite yet. He must believe it’s some type of karma for leaving.

“Then I met Esme,” Jack snaps, which wipes the smile off Roger’s face.

“Wife?”

“Fiancée.”

“Oh. _That’s_ surprising.”

“Why?” It’s a stupid thing to ask. Jack knows what’s coming, but it’s still a slap in the face when he hears it.

“Thought you preferred the company of others.” Roger’s voice is harsh and cold. “Seeing as most of your experience comes from me.”

“You weren’t the only one I fucked in school, you know,” Jack says, even snappier. Already, after less than a minute of talking to his old friend, Jack feels himself being driven mad. “Don’t think you’re special.”

He laughs again, this one with less sarcasm behind it. “Don’t worry. I don’t.”

“You’re still depressing as shit, then.”

“You’re still arrogant.”

“You’re still bitter. All because I moved.”

“I’m bitter at everything in this shitty world. Don’t think you’re special,” Roger says, mirroring Jack’s exact phrase, content at the expression which slips onto his features.

It goes silent for a few moments. It’s not comfortable silence, either. It’s the type which leaves Jack itching to say something, for something to _happen_.

“Have you got anyone?” he asks eventually.

“Nobody that I want.”

“Christ, Roger.” He says his name without any venom, but the dark boy still recoils at the sound of it. “You still don’t make life easy on yourself, do you?”

“Every time I try, it comes back and hits me in the face.” Roger knocks back the rest of his drink as if there wasn’t still half a glass left. He swallows and pulls a face. “I expect nothing, I’m never disappointed.”

“Are you … doing anything? With your life?”

“Wasting it.”

“Don’t you _want_ to do something?”

“End it.”

“That’s not healthy.”

For the third time in a three-minute period, Roger laughs. This one is the loudest and laced with the most sarcasm. “Come on, Merridew. You should know more than anybody that ‘unhealthy’ applies to anything I do.”

“You should go on medication. They have shit for that.”

“What, happy pills?” Roger asks disdainfully. Jack frowns. He’s heard the story about how his mother went on anti-depressants and they fucked her up, to the point of where she just _couldn’t._ When Jack had been told the story, he was only fourteen, and didn’t really understand it. “Yeah, those work really well.”

“You should –

“ _You_ should mind your own fucking business.”

They end up in a familiar position. Despite all the negativity thrown at each other, there’s still a tangle of old feelings, and it’s obvious neither one are quite over it. Roger clearly knows the guy behind the bar, as he points to the upstairs area whilst waggling twenty quid in his face. The guy nods grudgingly and takes the money. Then before Jack knows it he is betraying his fiancée, biting down on Roger’s skin hard enough to break it, leaving marks in his wake. Jack fucks him hard. He remembers Roger likes it when he goes deep, angling his hips in a certain way.  Roger’s orgasm lasts for a long time, and by the time it’s finally over, his muscles are shaking with the prolonged effort. Barely seconds after, Jack follows, the feeling of Roger tightening around him tipping him over the edge.

And it’s over. One final fuck, trying to recreate the past. It doesn’t quite work. Jack never remembers feeling this sad afterwards.

Roger pushes Jack off him, leans over and shakes out a cigarette from the packet. Even though they are inside, and the cigarette remains unlit between his lips, Jack can almost smell the acrid smoke, the smell which reminds him so much of wasted evenings behind the school hall when they would go through a packet of ten fags together.

“You’ve left bruises.”

“Good.”

The silence is filled with heavy breathing, lying side by side on a random bed. Jack wonders how many people have come up here to shag. This is south side all over – dingy little bars and upstairs rooms designated for fucking.

“You wanna know something, Merridew?” Roger starts. “I think I loved you, you know. When we were younger.”

All Jack can do is stare at his side profile. He resists the urge to say _no you didn’t_ because with Roger’s current hostility, he’s not sure he can guarantee the safety of his face. Esme would have a fit if he returns home with a black eye. She thinks he’s at some nice, north side restaurant with work friends.

“I didn’t know it then. But I always wanted to make you happy. Always wanted to make you smile.” He snorts. “And every time we fucked, you were so _nice_ to me, I felt so happy. For the first time in my life, I actually didn’t hate myself.”

“Sweet,” Jack says quietly. There’s not much else to say.

“No, it’s not sweet. It’s damaging.”

“How is it damaging? Love is supposed to be uplifting.”

“Don’t get poetic on me. That’s bullshit.” Roger grins again, without any satisfaction or humour this time. It looks unnatural, stretching his skin in a way it shouldn’t stretch. “Real love fucks you up. You’re basically tying yourself, your _life_ to another person. And unfortunately for me, it happened to be you.”

“You didn’t love me. You had nothing to compare it to. How can you have _known_ -?”

“I loved my mother,” snaps Roger, voice strained. “I knew what it felt like.”

Jack shifts uncomfortably, his naked body rustling the sheets. Somewhere on the floor are his clothes, but he doesn’t quite want to get up yet. He wants to stay here forever, basking in the afterglow with Roger, feeling bruises begin to form on his skin.

“How do you know I didn’t love you back?”

“Liar.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Somebody like you isn’t capable of love.”

Jack thinks back to when they’d first fucked, Roger’s legs spread wide and Jack settled between them, and the glorious feeling which came afterwards. That had to have been love, right? The immediate pleasure was over and all that was left was aching affection.

He thinks back to when they were fifteen and had just finished their exams. Jack was confident he’d achieved well, but Roger wasn’t as sure of himself. Roger had reluctantly voiced his anxieties and Jack had felt something tug at his chest. To comfort Roger, he had leaned down and drawn them together in a kiss, something which they didn’t do unless in the heat of the moment, when their bodies were intertwined in such an intimate way. He did that out of love, too.

“Says _you,_ ” Jack retorts indignantly. Why won’t Roger believe him? “You’re beyond fucked up.”

“Because I _feel_. I feel too much. That’s the problem.” Roger turns his gaze to reach Jack. It hits him like a flash of lightning. “I feel so much that it’s easier to feel nothing.”

“You can’t just … turn off emotion. It doesn’t work like that.”

“Don’t care.”

Another pause.

“So, I loved you. Told you everything about myself. Trusted you. Stopped being suspicious and just let myself _be_ … and then you left. Fucked it all up, as you’re good at.”

These words wouldn’t be half as painful if four years of resentment wasn’t hidden within them. Maybe Jack didn’t love Roger like the feelings were returned _,_ but we were practically together since were fourteen. Just minus the title of _boyfriends_. That’s not _nothing._

“What do you want me to do about it?” Jack asks. There’s no way he’s about to apologise. The words _I’m sorry_ haven’t left his mouth since he was ten.

“There’s not much you can do.”

Roger gets up and pulls his clothes on, his belt jingling as he does it up. Then he goes to leave, but Jack leans forwards and grabs his wrist. At the touch, a threatening look passes over Roger’s eyes, but he doesn’t pull away.

“I’m going outside for a smoke. Follow me out there and I’ll hit you.”

“What?”

“I don’t want to see you again. Ever.”

Even though Jack had known, deep down, that seeing Roger was only fleeting, disappointment still cuts deep.

“That’s a bit dramatic.”

“Maybe so. But my life is shitty enough and I don’t want you back in it, thanks very much.” Roger yanks his wrist away with enough force to bring Jack’s elbow from the socket. He takes one lingering look at Jack, eyes raking over him with blatant dislike, yet there’s a hint of longing underneath it all.

“Wait,” Jack calls. “You’re just –“

“Yep. I’m going to get up and just leave. Does that remind you of anybody?”

“Are you _really_ still mad about that?”

“Not just that. Everything.”

“You can’t. This isn’t … this isn’t finished.”

“ _I’ve_ finished. I’m done.” He sighs, long and ragged. “Bye, Merridew.”

Lost for words, all Jack can do is watch. He watches as Roger unconsciously ruffles his hair, making it less obvious he just got fucked. He watches as the door opens. He watches as Roger’s tall, slender frame slips out between the gap, and he watches the empty space for minutes afterwards.

And that is it. Jack never sees him again.

 

 


End file.
